


closed circuit

by futuredescending



Series: circuitry [1]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Smut, light angst as Mark is wont to do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: It’s hard to describe this thing they have now, Bridget, Jack, and him. Post-Bridget Jones's Baby.





	

**Author's Note:**

> What I apparently imagine to have happened after the film. Spoilers for _Bridget Jones's Baby_.

“Jack thinks we ought to head up north for the bank holiday. You can make it, can’t you?” Bridget asks.

Mark carefully pauses in typing up his briefing and mentally flips through his schedule, but the lack of an immediate answer causes Bridget to follow up with a hasty, “If you can’t, that’s alright. Do you think, maybe, you’d want to watch William then? If not, I can drop him off at Mum and Dad’s for the weekend.”

If one asked Mark how he thought his life would end up, he would have promptly recited the mental list of goals he carried about in his head from the ambitious age of eight: a career that would make a positive impact upon the world, a loving wife, beautiful children who would grow up to be even better than him, all around happiness and satisfaction in his professional and personal life. From an outsider’s perspective, one could say that at age 50 (and after a few bumps in the road), he has happily achieved all of these objectives.

Though he never would have— _could_ have—imagined the scenario in which he now found himself.

His career is rewarding. He’s brought genocidal dictators to justice. Sued governments for illicit doings against their own people and that of others. Defended the civil rights of questionably artistic punk lesbians. He’s secured asylum seekers’ safety. He’s fought for freedom and justice many times over.

He has Bridget. Albeit after fifteen years, two divorces, and four broken-off engagements, but still. He’s been lucky enough to (eventually) marry the love of his life, six percent compatibility be damned. And though they are like night and day and frequently argue like cats and dogs, by god, does he love her. She’s always brought out the very best in him, as little as that seems to be these days. For some reason, it’s enough for her.

And now he has William, whose question of paternity would have been firmly answered by the fact that he’s grown out of his scrunched up, red-faced infancy and taken on quite a bit of Mark’s own distinctive Darcy features. It’s not that he wouldn’t have loved the boy with all his heart even if William hadn’t shared his genetics, but it means his claim to this piece of happiness is that much more secure.

“Your mom’s been making noises about not getting to spend enough time with her grandson,” Jack says as he swoops into the room, William beset upon his shoulders. When he passes by Bridget’s chair, he leans down to give her a dashing kiss, and then bends to one knee for William to do the same, though in more drooling, clumsy fashion. “And we all know what happens when you let that go on for too long.”

He also has...Jack.

It’s hard to describe this thing they have now, Bridget, Jack, and him. His parents don’t quite understand when they call and sometimes it is Jack who picks up the phone. Don’t quite understand this strange man who is present at all their family occasions: the wedding, Christmas, Easter, William’s christening, William’s first birthday, _Mark’s_ birthday dinner.

Mark doesn’t know how to explain it to them either. There is Bridget and him, yes, historically, legally, genetically. And then there is Bridget and Jack.

Jack loves William and Bridget like they were his own. Jack is William’s godfather, uncle, and _second father_ all in one. Jack is also Bridget’s lover, if not exactly second husband, as well.

Fifteen years ago, this would have been a situation he would have never tolerated, not with his history of cheating wives and strong beliefs of traditional monogamy, but life has a funny way of wearing down the monoliths of his stubborn beliefs, taking twists and turns even he could not have predicted.

Jack is very good for Bridget. They have similar effervescent personalities. They see the possibilities and enthusiastically reach out to embrace them first before stopping to think of the consequences. They are visionaries, dreamers, armed with a youthful curiosity that transcends and defies age. They have _fun_ together, almost always, often spontaneously.

Jack fills in all the gaps that exist between Bridget and Mark: all the times Mark has to work late, or miss holidays and dinner dates, the business trips abroad to see clients unjustly imprisoned in their home countries, to speak at the UN, to meet with governments and warring rebel factions and too many self-congratulatory politicians to name. All the times when the proposed activity for the evening seems too outlandish for Mark to even think of participating in (terrible horror films at the cinema, SoulCycle, laser tag, salsa dancing, going to see some ghastly band, a bloody painting night).

Jack is there when Mark is not. Jack is always there.

Mark could be free this weekend. Sure, it would require bringing some of his work up with him, working a few late nights the next week, postponing some calls and a lunch, but he could make it work.

“I’ll watch William,” he says. “You two go and have fun.”

“You sure?” Bridget asks, ever perceptive, brows furrowing in, perhaps, concern or disappointment. She’s removed William from Jack’s shoulders and taken to bouncing him on her knee, causing his steady babbling to hitch rhythmically. _Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!_

“Of course. I have a lot to keep me here, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks, man. Let us know if you change your mind, we’d be happy to happy to have you along,” Jack says magnanimously, plucking William from his mother and depositing him in Mark’s lap as he pulls Bridget up out of the chair, sweeping her laughingly out of the room so she can go pack for her mini-break, baby and husband-free.

Because there is Mark and Bridget and there is Bridget and Jack, but there is no Mark and Bridget and Jack, and he can’t quite bring himself to spend a long weekend finding out just who would be the true third wheel in such a scenario.

It’s not jealousy. Not really. Maybe it’s resignation. He’s not enough on his own, he knows that. He’ll always disappoint. He’ll always be too stuffy, too serious, too socially reserved for the vivacious, energetic, fun-loving Bridget. He looks down at his son, who stares back up at him. “You’ll be better than me,” he tells him.

“Ba!” William shouts, reaching up to land a surprisingly hard slap on his cheek.

“Ow.”

 

_____

 

In one of the rare few nights he doesn’t have to cancel dinner with his wife, Mark is rather dismayed to see Jack sitting across from him at the restaurant table instead.

“What is this?” he asks, not more than a little incensed.

“Bridget is fine,” Jack assures him. “She’s at home with William.”

“While that’s all well and good, it doesn’t answer the question.”

“Bridge and I—” Jack ignores the way Mark’s eyes narrow at _Bridge_. Really. “—Talked it over. We think there’s been something going on with you. You’ve been quiet. I mean, more so than usual. And not like the usual tight-assed quiet. You’ve been distant.”

The thought that they spend their time together talking about him is teeth-clenchingly irksome. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Everything’s fine. Or it was, until my wife’s lover decided to crash our date—”

“There it is,” Jack says, grinning. “That, right there. I told Bridge, but she didn’t believe me at first—”

“ _Bridget_. It’s Bridget.”

“—I know we have an understanding, but it’s never been _easy_ , has it? You let me stay, but it’s for Bridget’s sake, you self-martyring, uptight, pr—”

“Is there a point here?” Mark sharply asks, preparing to simply stand up and leave before they make a scene. He already imagines a few eyes in their direction and feels the heat flush across the back of his neck.

“Have you ever been with a man, Mark?"

The question pulls him up short, completely obliterating all his current thought processes. “I... _what?_ ”

“You hear things that go down at Eton, right? Doesn’t count because it happened at school….”

“I’ve had about enough of this.” And just to emphasise the point, Mark stands up and swiftly makes for the exit, apologising to the host on his way out.

The evening is cool and he doesn’t realise how hot his skin is until the air touches his cheeks and he can breathe a little easier, spine unwinding from the rigid tension it’s been set in ever since Jack plopped down at the table.

“I have, you know.”

Mark whirls around to find Jack right behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets, stance casual and relaxed in ways Mark has never been able to actively achieve.

“I mean, I’m mostly heterosexual, but you know, there’s been a few here and there,” Jack continues.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mark asks, bewildered.

“Because I’d like for this thing to work,” Jack says. “Not just between Bridge and I. I want all three of us to work. So does Bridge. She loves you.”

“She loves you too,” Mark can’t help but grudgingly add.

“Yeah she does,” Jack easily agrees, taking a few idle steps forward to close the distance between them. “She loves _us_. We love her. So now I’m just trying to see if there’s something you and I can work out between us.”

“I’m not gay,” Mark says automatically.

“Neither am I. But there’s been one or two?” Jack asks, somehow not making it seem like a question so much as a statement of fact.

“What are you doing?” Mark asks, alarmed, but not moving, not yet, for how close into his personal space Jack has entered. He refuses to be intimidated by a man several centimetres shorter than him.

“Don’t you want to see if there’s a chance? To close the loop?” Jack asks softly, leaning in aggressively closer, tipping his face up.

Mark can smell the soft scent of the expensive cologne he wears. Something sharp and spicy that he could never get away with but which suits the other man’s personality well. This close, he can see that Jack’s eyes are as clear as aqua glass, that he has absurdly long eyelashes, a crooked nose, and an enviably strong jaw line. Age has made his features rugged, not sagging and pale as it has done Mark.

When Jack’s lips brush Mark’s, they are firm and sure, thicker than Bridget’s. There’s a hiss of stubble that scrapes across his jaw. There’s the way Jack grabs at his tie to pull him down where Bridget would have wound her arm around his neck.

Mark rears back, not as forcefully or as quickly as he ought to have done, heart pounding in his chest, staring at Jack. “I—I don’t….”

“That’s what tonight is about. To figure it out. Bridget knows. She approves. So the only question remains is, do you want to see?”

 

_____

 

It’s not, admittedly, the first time another man has sucked his cock. There _had been_ one or two at school. Curious fumbling of hands and mouths before properly pursuing girls. Nothing serious.

But as he sits on the bed in the hotel room they’ve rented for the night, and Jack slides his lips down the length of him, moaning, flat of his tongue scraping across the underside of his prick, and gods, the heat and _suction_ , Mark can’t help but think he’s crossing into new, uncharted territory. This _thing_ where Mark isn't even fully undressed, he just let Jack unbuckle his belt, slide down the zip and free him from his boxers. Just let Jack stroke him into hardness with his hand as his tongue explored the inside of Mark’s mouth, until he slid down effortlessly to his knees and swallowed Mark down, and Mark’s own (creakier, stiffer) knees had buckled until he had sunk down onto the edge of the bed.

If Mark doesn't look down, he can almost imagine this is Bridget but for the distinctly larger masculine hand stroking the base of his cock, slipping down to fondle his balls, the deeper vibrations of the noises Jack makes as he chokes down the length of him, not quite able to take him as deeply as Bridget can.

Still, it’s undeniably good. Different. Jack is as sincerely eager in this as he is in all things, and Mark soon finds himself helpless to relax as a cresting climax floods his veins and then pushes him over the edge, loosening his limbs, bleeding the tension from his body as he comes with a choked off, slightly pathetic whimper that sounds even louder in the strangely muffled silence of the room.

Jack just...swallows around him, bobbing his head through it until Mark has to pull him off with a light tug on his ample, thick hair. When Jack meets his eyes, he’s grinning, his chin all shiny with saliva. “Good, right?”

“Yes, alright,” Mark reluctantly agrees, sounding winded. It’s easier, then, to let himself be tugged forward again into Jack’s lips. To taste himself on Jack’s tongue, imagine this is the way he kisses Bridget, and that thought makes him moan a little bit, because what would it be like if Bridget were here, watching them?

(Reality being if she actually were, Mark would be too tense with anxiety and self-consciousness to do much of anything at all but it’s safe to fantasise about it, the heat of her eyes, the sly grin on her lips, brushing her fingers through Mark’s hair as he allowed himself to be—)

“God,” Jack whispers against his lips. “Want to get me off too? Just your hand is fine.”

With a mind still a bit orgasm-stupid, Mark readily complies, even finding it easy to sink fully down onto the floor and unhesitatingly part Jack’s own trousers to delve his hand and enclose it around his hard length of flesh.

He even dares to look down, taking in how Jack is circumsised, of good length and girth, leaking enough to make the up and down strokes Mark gives to his cock easier, slicker. His hand looks good like this, wanking Jack’s cock as Jack bucks into him, as Jack’s mouth starts sucking and biting at his neck, heaving pants moist against his skin, low-throated encouragements, _yeah, like that, so good, fuck_ tickling his ear. If he were younger, he’d undoubtedly be fully hard again by now.

Jack spurts hot come all over Mark’s hand and bites hard into the column of his throat, all without warning, then laughs breathlessly when his wits return, pressing his soiled, spent cock against Mark’s, messing them both up even more, as he kisses Mark just as sloppily, loose, carefree. Mark’s knees aren’t thanking him. He hasn’t got a change of clothes. How they will smell of semen even when he leaves. What the cleaning staff will have to do to the poor carpet after they check out. The dry cleaning alone for this….

But Jack just winds a hand through his hair and holds him and it feels so good to be so freely touched by a man who has chosen to be with him and his wife and his baby even when there is nothing traditionally to hold him to them.

“Ooh, Mr Darcy,” Jack says when their mouths finally part and what had been hot and slick in the moment starts to turn sticky and more than a little disgusting.

“Qwant,” Mark says curtly, then can’t help smiling just a little bit.

Latest developments still won’t have made it easier to explain to his parents. How the RSVP will be for four, how they’ll maybe only need one guest room once William is settled in the nursery. How they’ll be introduced to fellow dinner guests and party goers. Plus-ones will always be Plus-Twos. How they’ll explain to William’s school that all three of them are to be listed as guardians, how they all show up at plays and parent-teacher nights and sporting events.

Mark doesn’t have an answer for these looming challenges yet, but at least he is certain that he will have them and, moreover, more surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t even think he’ll really mind.


End file.
